


the sweetest golden weeks of autumn

by blackeyedblonde



Series: ✨Babies, Beasties, and Breeding Kink✨ [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Animal Transformation, Breeding, Comfort Reading, Deer, Established Relationship, Forest Sex, Forest Spirits, M/M, Magical Realism, Nature Magic, Romance, Tenderness, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 10:05:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19423765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackeyedblonde/pseuds/blackeyedblonde
Summary: The silver stag may be the king of the wild wood, but he belongs to Connor tonight.





	the sweetest golden weeks of autumn

**Author's Note:**

> Some horny forest magic stuff because I needed to get it out of my system. No animal sex, only sex in human form. There's a very mild and gentle birth scene toward the end written in passing, nothing graphic by a long shot, but Connor definitely has a baby while in his stag form. 
> 
> Bambi lives in this one, boys.

  
  
In the sweetest golden weeks of autumn, when the trees are going barren and the air is crisp but not quite yet frigid, Connor wanders the forest looking for his lover.

There’s no need to call his name or ask the birds to lead the way—after so many years of being drawn together through the changing seasons, they’ll find each other in due time. They always do.

He holds his head aloft and sniffs the air as his light feet pick through the foliage. It’s getting late in the day and the forest floor is gilded where sun falls between the trees, fiery from the burnt orange and scarlet leaves fallen to the ground. Connor’s ears prick back and forth as he walks, and when he breaks into a small clearing he spots the silver stag in the distance.

They are both old now, maybe ancient by some stories told, but the stag is much older. His flanks are scarred from old battles fought and won, shaggy chest broad and antlers magnificently sprawling. He turns and looks at Connor over one shoulder, strong nose twitching in the autumn air, and snorts in greeting. A soft, humorous sound, unknown by nearly all but Connor.

All airs of aloof stoicism fall away and the silver stag lowers his head before he drops into a canter, and Connor bounds toward him in great leaps until they meet at the edge of the forest. Here the birds and small creatures grow quiet in the king’s presence, watching like subjects lining the hall of a grand court.

Connor greets his lover with warmth and fondness, nuzzling their warm noses together and nibbling along the plane of the silver stag’s neck. Up this close he can see the familiar blue of the stag’s eyes, strange and so unlike most of the other forest creatures. They can speak to each other through shared silence and touch, but Connor wants to hear his name on the stag’s other tongue, yearns for it after all their time spent apart.

When he turns and steps beyond the tree line to begin leading them into deeper forest, the stag only lowers his head again and follows, warm breath ghosting lightly across the cool evening air. Darkness will fall across the wild wood soon, and Connor secretly hopes to keep the silver stag in his arms until morning rises again.

They come upon a glen near the river and then the browning thicket beyond. Connor ducks his graceful head and disappears through a familiar part in the brush, feeling his body change in shivering anticipation. When the dry leaves rustle again he turns and watches as the broad-shouldered bulk of his lover follows him inside their secret nook in the forest, no longer a stag, but the finely aged and handsome form of a man.

“Hank,” he says, soft voice gone raspy from disuse. Hank opens his arms and Connor folds himself against that silvery chest without hesitation, delighted by the warm, whiskery smile pressed in a kiss against his temple.

“I’ve missed you,” Hank says, voice rumbling between them. They’re both unclothed in this form but seem immune to the brisk air outside, heated bodies pressed together in the warmth of this magic spot only they know of. There are thick furs and hides from beasts that haven’t walked the earth in a millennia sprawled out on the bed of dry leaves, untouched by time and the elements. There’s not a more perfect place to bed down for the night.

Connor tips his face up so Hank’s lips meet his for a gentle kiss instead, letting himself be drawn against the broad expanse of his lover’s body, sound and familiar as a stone wall. There’s no real precursor or herald to their coupling in the autumn—it’s simply always been this way, at least for as long as Connor can remember back into the far-flung dregs of the old world, when the earth was still wild and humans still cowered in fear.

The silver stag may be the king of the wild wood, but he belongs to Connor tonight.

“Beautiful as ever, I see,” Hank says between kisses he leaves on the freckled bridge of Connor’s nose, the height of his cheekbone, the underside of his jaw. They cross paths more often on four legs rather than two, but making love like this has always been Connor’s favorite. It’s a ritual sprung forth simply from the act of their togetherness, intimate and lovely enough to make the earth shiver and tremble by witness.

The sun disappears behind the horizon and an owl hoots from somewhere high in the trees. Connor lies down on the furs and brings Hank with him, full of wanting as deep as his bones. His naked body is pale enough to shine like the moon here at dusk and Hank lavishes it with his touch, palms skimming up his strong thighs to press a fingertip against the scarred point where a hunter’s wayward arrow pierced the skin above Connor’s hip and went into his side.

Hank isn’t without his own scars and wounds in this form, either. Beneath the stag’s silver hair are the jagged claw marks of a bear, the lash of a sword, the newest strange peppering of buckshot that Connor can still feel beneath his skin. Gnarled and torn, Hank’s still reverent in his touch, gentle, a warming flame Connor’s drawn to time and again. He bends his handsome face toward Connor’s and lets two fine, pale hands hold it there, captured in place if only for the night.

And in turn the heavy weight of Hank’s hips and belly lower against the open cradle of Connor’s thighs and he relishes in the feeling of being pinned, held down, caught exactly where he wants to be. Hank’s thick cock already hot and hardening low against his belly, so close to Connor’s slick heat he could cry. His breath hitches and he gasps, softly, as Hank takes his chin and turns his face into another brush of a kiss before lining up the flushed head of his cock with Connor’s entrance.

Their eyes meet and catch fast, snared like two fluttering grouse. Thunder rumbles in the distance, swallowing up Connor’s throaty moan in the same moment Hank sinks into him fully with one deep, fluid motion, watching his lovely face the whole while. The rain won’t find them here, but Connor wraps his legs around his lover’s hips and drags blunt nails up Hank’s strong back, making heat lightning splinter across the darkening sky.

They don’t need to speak, but Hank turns his face into dark curls and whispers, “Connor.”

That alone makes a shard of ecstasy shoot through Connor like another bronze arrow, and he cries out again when Hank ruts into him with deep, purposeful thrusts, taking Connor’s hips in his big hands to tilt his body up for the taking. Nothing about it is rushed or without care, though, and Connor locks his arms around Hank’s neck, letting himself be carried along in a timeless, primal rhythm.

The furs are sinfully hot against Connor’s back and Hank’s cock inside him even sweeter, punching the tiniest sounds from his lungs, nudging into that exquisite spot that makes the brightening stars flicker and wheel above. In the old world they could’ve fucked each other on a stone altar to bring forth the bounty of spring, but the people don’t lay flowers and slain bulls at their feet anymore, and the silver stag is only king of the forest and whatever still believes in him.

His power has never once waned, though, and Connor feels that strength bleeding into him as they rock together, stirring up the lowing groan of thunder in the valley. He frowns when Hank pulls back long enough to take Connor’s calves in hands, pushing them up until he’s nearly folded in half at the waist. All the wet slick between his legs shining in the faint moonlight, and Hank dips a finger there into Connor’s velveteen heat and brings it back up for a taste against his tongue, as sweet as wild honey, before he smiles wickedly. The gap between Hank's teeth is wonderful enough that Connor presses the tip of his own tongue against it and moans when Hank sinks back into him up to the hilt with a wild jerk of his hips, cockhead kissing deep enough that Connor feels it touch the entrance of his womb.

He squirms under Hank and bucks beneath him, not so much fighting as wanting him ever deeper. Something vicious and untamed thrums through his blood at the thought of being filled, and he cries out in a language that only the two of them know anymore. Hank curls his fingers in the hair at the base of Connor’s skull and pulls his head back enough to press his mouth against the hot pulse throbbing there. He laves his tongue against it and sucks against the supple skin, relishing in the life beating beneath his lips, fucking into Connor with thoughtless abandon like it’s all he knows how to do.  
  
Reality shifts, flickers, and tips to the side. There is here, there, and everything in between—and then there is Hank, the silver stag just beyond the veiled brink of what can be seen, crushing his mouth against Connor’s as he shudders and lightning illuminates the entire expanse of night sky for a split second that seems to go on forever. Hank’s thick cock slams into Connor’s hole one last time and fills him in scorching, pulsing spurts, and Connor cries as his body shudders and comes undone with it, tears streaking down his face and into the soft furs, crystalline drops of pure seawater as old as the world itself.

It rains elsewhere as he cries, a light sprinkling that dampens the feathers of the night birds and makes the ivy and wildflowers shiver and dance beneath the darkness. Hank licks Connor’s tears away even as his cock still twitches deep inside him, softly kissing the corners of his eyes, his brow, the damp curls at his temples.

“Shh, my darling,” Hank soothes, his grip at the back of Connor’s head loosened so that he can pet him instead, pushing the dark hair away from his face. He smiles like he always does, nuzzling against Connor’s cheek with those silvery whiskers. Voice rasping out a quiet prayer of thanks, of love, of new life already blossoming between him and the earth, nestled there in the precious well of Connor’s belly.

“You are the light that shines on this land,” Hank whispers, pressing his lips against Connor’s forehead. “It would’ve crumbled into ruin a long time ago without you, Connor,” he says, and then sits back enough to kiss the inside of Connor’s knee. “And I would have gone with it.”

Hank eases Connor’s legs back into the furs and then settles down beside him, gathering his lover up into his arms. Connor’s body is strong, beautiful, rippled with lean muscle along his sides and sinew that cords in his arms. Knees and elbows rosy, face flushed from their lovemaking.

Despite his long legs and considerable height, he still curls against Hank’s chest and tucks his face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the rich, earthen scent of clean musk there. Hank presses a gentle hand between his thighs, thumb stroking along the soaked slit there, making Connor’s back arch as he presses thick fingers into the spent hole that was stretched around his cock only moments ago.

“H- _Hank_ ,” Connor says in a breathless whine, muscles still fluttering around his lover’s hand. There’s nothing crude about it, only the tender press of Hank’s fingers inside and against Connor’s body as he strokes him along to the sound of a passing storm, gently coaxing him into the warm bliss of a second climax.

“In the spring there’ll be another young prince in the wood,” Hank says, soft words huffed against the crown of Connor’s head. His hand finally slips free from between Connor’s legs, leaving him spent and leaking, thighs still trembling from an abundance of pleasure. “I’ll come find you, then,” Hank promises. “Both of you.”

They always part in the autumn with pangs of the sweetest sorrow, a brief but somehow endless respite. The night is still young but Connor doesn’t want Hank to go. He presses kisses to that handsome face, soft as dewy moth wings. The silver stag is a beautiful beast of great lore and mysticism, at least in the old stories scrawled in books that crumbled to ash many years ago, but this Hank is Connor’s favorite.

There has always been love in his heart whether he walks on two legs or four, but when they are together like this he better understands the foolish whimsy of so many humans fallen in the folly of mortal love. It beats through his body like a second pulse, intoxicating, a drunkenness from being held and kissed by his only mate. When they leave this secret thicket and Connor steps lightly again on hooves through the autumn forest, green shoots will bloom under his feet until the first hard frost. Dormant life sings all around him, drawn to the king's Favorite like sunflowers turned toward the fiery sun.

They will go their separate ways at morning’s first sign of dawn, Connor knows. This is the way it has always been. The silver stag gone to watch over his realm, and the bearer of light sleeping away winter’s darkest hours until the ground thaws once more.

For now, Connor pushes his fingers through the silver hair on Hank’s broad chest and lets them roam up to his lover’s beard, his mouth, the fine tip of his nose. Mapping out what was already memorized so long ago, swiping a thumb across his strong brow.

Hank takes Connor’s hand and kisses his palm, then the delicate branch of blue veins at his wrist. Whispers another ancient prayer there and suddenly Connor is tired, content, lulled here in the safety of the king’s arms.

Autumn wears on around them, all the world gone golden in its last peaceful hour of drawing breath.  
  


* * *  
  
  


Spring follows Connor through the forest, raking her rosy fingers along the ground and up the trunks of trees as she goes. Nests fill with dappled eggs and the rabbits line their dens with dry grass and soft fur, protecting the new wriggling babies tucked inside.

Wildflowers bloom wherever Connor lays and the first tiny buds of fruit begin unfurling on the bushes and trees. He nibbles at the virgin grass and watches the redheaded fox slink into her den carrying a tiny kit, ears pricked and golden eyes watchful.

The kingdom is alive and flourishing after the hard blow of winter. Even though the silver stag went unseen, that doesn’t mean he wasn’t watching.

When his own time comes, Connor slips off into the deeper wood and beds down in a lush thicket not unlike the one where he and Hank lay with each other. He sinks to his knees on a bed of soft clover amidst the mulberry bushes and honeysuckle vines and feels his body bear down, waiting until the moment is right. It’s easier to bring his children into the world this way, quiet and as close to nature as possible. He was born like this so many centuries ago, serene, silent, and dotted with newborn speckles of white—none of the squalling wails and ruddiness of newborn humanity.

Connor grunts but doesn’t make another sound, graceful brown neck curving around after one final push to watch his baby slide into the wide open world. Thunder rumbles in the distance as he gently licks the afterbirth from the little doe fawn, soft tongue cleaning around her delicate ears and spotted flank. She’s beautiful, a tawny caramel color with eyes the color of her father’s, blue as a lovely robin’s egg. The thicket shields them from the light sprinkle of spring rain as Connor tucks his baby close against his side, resting just a little while longer until he urges her to stand and nurse.

Leaves rustle from somewhere nearby, and Connor’s nostrils flare in fear until he catches the familiar scent of the silver stag. The thicket seems to part itself around the antlered king and he walks over with his great head lowered, touching his nose to Connor's in gentle greeting. Turning with newfound interest, he snuffles against the still-damp baby curled up and sleeping at Connor’s side.

So tiny, fragile—a spindly-legged spirit not even as old as the day is long. Their newborn prince.

The fawn dozes on and the silver stag drops to his front knees before settling down at Connor’s back in the warm grass. He nibbles behind his ears, loving and familiar, and keeps silent watch as Connor tucks his head against the baby and rests at last. The forest moves and whispers all around them, shimmering with excitement, welcoming the brand new arrival in the king’s court.

Later, when the fawn finally stands and walks, the silver stag will take them both out into the wood so that their child can see the wider world. All of it inherited by birthright, thrumming with old magic that moves through their shared blood and beneath their feet.

She will have a name, and a purpose, and the forest will bend toward her gentle beauty in awed deference. The daughter of the king and his beloved bringer of brightness—a spirit so aptly named Dawn.

For now, Hank lets her sleep, thankful for the bounty of spring and for all the light Connor has brought him.  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> per Syn's suggestion, the little doe fawn's name is Dawn ❤


End file.
